Confessions
by HowObjectionable
Summary: It isn't only criminals who have things to confess. Confessions from those from all of the 'main four' games, for all of those time when people want to just ask 'why'.
1. Thalassa

**First piece of AA fanfiction in a LONG time, I hope I haven't lost my touch!**

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><p><strong>Thalassa<br>**

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><p><em>I have a confession to make...<em>

It was twenty-two, twenty-three years ago now. I was nineteen years old, I was madly in love, and my husband and I had a baby of our own. I was young; barely a child myself, but my little Apollo was the most darling thing in my universe. Well, him and his father. Zeus (yes, that was his name; his stage name really, but I never called him anything else) was a little older than me, a small matter of five or six years, but my father never liked him. He didn't like his age, he didn't like his suaveness, and he didn't like that some 'upstart' had come and stolen his daughter and sealed the deal with 'the little bastard'.

Father never called Apollo by name. He was not intentionally malicious towards my sweet baby son - who could be, tiny from born a little early with an abundance of hair and huge brown eyes, he melted the hearts of everyone - but he never really accepted him. "Apollo," he raged one day over the telephone, "What sort of name for a boy is that?" I explained to him calmly that it was the name of a god, of the sun and of the truth. What more fitting name for a boy like him was there? The god, son of Zeus, and the truth, which could never be hidden from my father or myself. Still, 'bastard' was what Apollo was called, as, according to my father, 'bastard' he was. After all, as far as he was concerned, my husband was barely existing, so how could we have a legal son?

But nobody, not my father, not Zak, and not Valant, could dent my happiness. The latter two - with both of whom, I am ashamed to say, I was (to some degree) aware of their romantic feelings towards me - had both come to persuade me to return to the troupe. Bring the boy, bring my husband! But no, I was happy, I was in love, and I was with my family.

And then, of course, I wasn't. I don't want to talk about the accident. It was too horrible. My Apollo witnessed it - thank god he was too young to remember! - but I only saw the aftermath, which was grizzly enough. How ironic, that I should suffer the same fate so many years later, and survive! Why, I sometimes ask, did whatever powers there are take my Zeus from me and not take me under the same circumstances? But no, I would not complain; I am lucky and happy to be alive.

I don't remember much about the next couple of months. In a state of depression, I returned to my father, with my son - Father now referred to him as 'the boy' - and after about a year, I began to feel fairly alive again. I helped Zak and Valant with their act, and began to get back to normal. But I couldn't help notice the discord. Father did not like Apollo, much as he tried to hide it, and it was clear that Zak was equally, if not more, uncomfortable with him. I spoke to Valant about it, and was told quietly that they both - and Valant too - thought that I was spending too much time and energy on the baby - and I, barely out of childhood myself, was still recovering from depression!

"You look at him," Zak told me, barely concealing his disgust as the four of us sat at dinner while Apollo napped, "And you see that man, and you cry again. You and I, Thalassa-"

Yes, he and I. My father had wasted little time in suggesting I remarry, preferably one of his disciples, and it was Zak who was beginning to charm me almost a year after my husband's death. I did marry him eventually, of course, but I wonder to this day if he knew I could never truly feel the love for him that he felt for me. I loved him, oh yes, but he, sad as it may be to admit it, was always second in my heart.

"You're not coping, Thalassa!" Valant urged me. "Zak is right, you can't look after this boy anymore."

I looked to my father, hoping against hope that he would help me, but he looked back coldly. "You are a child, Thalassa. The boy is stopping your recovery. You aren't performing, you aren't happy, and you frankly shouldn't even have a child of your own anyway."

I slowly came to believe them. After another depressive attack a week or two later, I caved in. I took my son in a bundle in my arms to the orphanage: I did not want their company. The door opened at the first knock. What must I have looked like to that kindly lady - a young girl, ragged from rain, soaked in tears, clutching and muttering to her baby, half-wild in her apologies and in her promises to him. I don't remember that night beyond the door opening. I spent the night at the orphanage, deemed unwell and unable to go home by the owner, and in the morning I left him with my bracelet to remember me by, and my promise that I would return to him when I could.

Years passed, and Zak and I were married. Five years after our wedding, I had my daughter, my little Trucy. Her eyes were the brightest blue - she had inherited the colour from me - but when I looked at her, the tiny baby in my arms, and saw the fuzz of brown hair and the size of her eyes, I burst into tears.

"My Trucy," I wept to her, as she blinked up at me, "How could I have done it? I promise, you will find your brother some day. We both will."

I never spoke of him again to her, never in her memory did I mention the boy who was her brother. Why didn't I? Why didn't I tell her? Why did I give him up in the first place? I suppose the reason was always the same.

_...I was so scared._

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><p><strong>Review?<strong>


	2. Max

**Thanks for the reviews! I was so pleased to see that I got two requests as I actually forgot to mention in the last chapter that I was hoping for some. Give me a character and a situation and I'll write it, first-come-first-serve basis. (If there are no requests, I will choose one myself). Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Max<br>**_(For TheNextAlice)_

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><p><em>I have a confession to make...<em>

Me and my dad were never exactly close, but I loved him a lot. He was Wesley Tobias Johns, expert farm owner at the peak of his physical and mental health, and I was his flamboyant, skinny, useless-on-the-farm eldest son. My little brother, Colton Oswald (we called him Oz), was much more suited to the farm life, but my dad was firm: the eldest would take over. He dedicated hours every week trying to teach me in the ways of the farm, but none of it ever really sank in.

"Got the head in the clouds, that boy," he told my mother in exasperation, on a fairly regular basis.

"I reckon he's after bigger things," my mom would respond fondly, "Ain't that right, Billy Bob?"

"Yes'm," I would invariably reply, though even at six or seven I wouldn't tell them about my real dream. Dad had it half right: I wanted, more than anything, to fly, above and away from the life at the farm where I could never really fit in.

Oz would tease me mercilessly, getting worse as we got older. When he was nine, and I was ten, he laughed in my face one day when I dropped the feed-bucket for the third time. "I'm going to have this farm one day, Billy Bob!" he mocked. "And what will you have?"

Angrily, I yelled back at him, "I'm gonna be the President of the United States!"

What started out as a childish outburst soon became fairly serious. I began to like the sound of it; William Robert Johns, President of the United States of America. I threw myself into political studies, much to the pride of my mother and the chagrin of my father. It was only when I was eighteen, poised to jump into college, that I realised what I'd not noticed: the farm was in trouble. Dad was an excellent farmer, but a terrible businessman, and he'd gathered significant amounts of debt over the years which were now coming back to haunt him.

We were all worried. I knew I couldn't expect them to help me out much with college anymore - although Mom made sure I knew that I would get every little bit of help they had to offer, and Oz's future was suddenly on the ropes as well. Never minding our futures, our _present _was at risk: we'd have nowhere to live if we didn't come up with the money soon. I decided to put off further education until we could afford it, taking a job as a campaign worker to at least gain some experience in my field.

I went by 'William' now; 'Billy Bob' was an affectionate nickname for a fairly uneducated child; an alter-ego I sometimes found myself slipping into in the most panicked of times (and still sometimes do). And it was 'William' who accompanied Oz and my parents to the magician's troupe when it came to town. We watched the performers in amazement, allowing them to take our minds off our troubles for a while, and then the magician in yellow asked for a volunteer from the audience. Somehow, I was chosen, bundled onto the stage. Afterwards, the crowd was cheering me, and I caught my dad's eye as he grinned, and - such a feeling! I was overwhelmed, amazed: these people were cheering, cheering for _me! _As I climbed down from the stage, still slightly dazed, my dad complimented me on my showmanship. Gruffly, he told me I'd been great up there. This was bigger to me than everything else put together.

I applied for a full scholarship to university, hoping against hope that I'd be good enough to get in to get on track for my dream career. I also began practicing magic tricks on the side, fascinated as I had been by the magician I had seen. I found, to my amazement, that I was _good. _I began putting on shows for the locals, though not as 'William' - no, the strong political-minded future president couldn't do that, nor could the uneducated child that was Billy Bob. I fashioned myself another alter-ego, tapping into the flamboyance of my early youth - a beautiful, perhaps a little egotistical,_ fabulous _man who went by the name of Maximillion Galactica. While William studied, Max learned new tricks. While William talked to politicians, Max was choosing as many different symbols as possible for himself. While William took his scholarship exams, Max was performing bigger and bigger shows.

The parallel life, of course, couldn't last, and it wasn't all glory. My dad was told he had nine months to pay at least a quarter of the rent or the farm was gone. The next day, a miracle happened. I was now almost twenty-one years old, and I got the visit that changed my life. A beautiful young woman was sitting on the sofa with my father when I entered the living room; the girl couldn't have been more than sixteen, but she took my breath away. It took me a few minutes to realise that there was another man in the room.

"I am Russell Berry," the man told me, standing to shake my hand. His circus, he explained, was in desperate need of a new act, and I had been spotted by his daughter (the angel on the sofa) at one of my shows. He was prepared to offer me - well, a _lot _of money - if Maximillion Galactica would sign exclusively to the Berry Big Circus. I gaped, unable to believe what I was hearing, when I heard a shriek. My mother came running into the room. "Billy! It's here, son!"

She handed me the brown envelope which she clearly hadn't been able to resist opening. By her face, I knew; I'd gotten the scholarship. I looked to my father. "You do what you have to, son," he told me softly, and I could see the genuineness in his eyes.

I looked at the envelope, and at the ringmaster. I looked back at my dad. "How much did you say?" I croaked. The ringmaster repeated the number; more than enough to begin to pay off the debts at the farm. I looked to the girl on the sofa, who was giggling at me as if I'd done something very funny. I looked at the envelope which opened the door to my long-held dreams. And I turned to Mr Russell Berry and I said;

"That would be _fabulous, _darling!"

_...I wanted to make my father proud._

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><p><strong>Reviews and requests are loved :3<strong>


	3. Matt

**Thanks again for reviewing. I'll cover every single request given, in case there was any confusion as to that. One more note; feel free to mention/request a character that's already been used, just with a different scenario. Enjoy ^^  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Matt<strong>

_(For kittycatty0328)_

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><p><em>I have a confession to make...<em>

I was the pretty one, nobody ever denied that. The pretty little rich boy; pretty enough to be a girl and spoiled beyond belief. But that was all. A bit dim, they said. Airy-fairy. Never to amount to anything. And all of that was pretty much true. I didn't have many friends; I was too rich, too pretty...too much of an outsider...too spoiled, too different. I didn't really care; I lived in my own little world with the family cat from the age of about seven. It wasn't as though I was bullied, I was simply left alone. Good. They weren't _like _me. They didn't _get _me. The feeling was mutual.

Mom and Dad never had much time for me either. I was about ten when they split, and they were both so busy spoiling me to show who was the better parent that neither of them took the time to be the better parent. I went to Dad. The cat went to Mom. I hated them for that. I didn't need their attention, but Boots was my companion, and I wanted her. Dad told me he'd get me a new cat. Got me a black one named Tess. I hated it. They'd taken my companion, so I made one of my own.

I'm not crazy. I knew that 'Matt' and 'Matthew' weren't any different. I knew that I was talking to myself. But Matt was _different _from me. He was cooler than me. More dangerous. He took what he wanted and didn't let parents and other people push him around. I wished I was Matt.

As I became a teenager, I suddenly gained attention. The girls liked my pretty face. The guys liked my money for cars and booze. They called me 'Matt'. It felt strange, but I liked it, and I let them. I got my first motorbike at sixteen, which shot up my popularity even more. Had a lot of sex, drank a lot. Enjoyed myself. Felt like I fitted in. I didn't need the other me anymore. It wasn't _right _for me though. I wasn't like _them._

There was this one girl, Cindy, when I was about eighteen. Aspiring actress, and to me the sexiest thing on the planet. I wanted her, and by the way she spoke and acted I could tell she wanted me just as badly. And there was this one guy, Jack, who wanted her too. And I could tell from the way she spoke and the way she acted that she wanted _him _just as badly as well. He hated me. I hated him. He threw a party in a beach hut; didn't invite me. I went anyway. Saw him kissing Cindy through the window after not being allowed in.

I'd been taught from the crib to go and get whatever I wanted, and taught well that enemies were to be shown no mercy. And so I went to the nearest convenience store, bought a lighter, and torched the place. Easy enough with a wooden building like that.

Nobody died. But the party broke up as everyone ran away. Nobody noticed me. I sat at a distance, watching the flames flicker and the coughing people run and I was thrilled.

Walking home after the fire was extinguished, I shuddered. What was going on with me? That wasn't cool, I wasn't an arsonist. Someone could have died. I hated them all, but I didn't want their death on my hands. A cold thought ran through me then. _Matt? __No, don't be a fucking nutcase, Matthew Engarde. They'll have you locked up._

When I was nineteen, speeding around on my bike, I heard a miaowing in an alley. I screeched to a stop, and spied a street cat and her kittens padding about. There, in the throng, was Boots. Not literally, of course; this kitten was male and much smaller than Boots had been, but I knew at once that I wanted him. And so I walked over and took him.

The mother cat sprang at me, scratching at me and yowling as soon as she realised that I was talking her baby. I was defenseless with the kitten in my hands, so she got a good few scratches into me before I could push her away. I sat the kitten in my helmet on the back of the bike, staggering, half-blind, back to the mother. I know I would have walked away before, but something was stopping me now. A rage filled me, mingling with the excruciating pain - doctors would never fix my eye - and I got my own back on the thing. I don't know if I killed it, but I have the suspicion that if it wasn't dead before I left, it was soon after.

As I played with Shoe later, I felt disgusted again. But not sorry. Never sorry. It had deserved it. I had taken what I wanted.

I got into acting soon after, ushered by my so-called-friends on my looks. I knew I was a good actor. I was hiding him from everyone. Hiding me from everyone. Did I ever feel anything for Celeste? Honestly, other than a raw sexual attraction - and there was plenty of that - no. She was a pawn to me, to Matt, to me, to him, like I, he, _we _had been for our parents. For us to take what we wanted, Matt and I, as it should be. And she died, and we thought that it was over, Matt and I. But it wasn't over for us, of course.

Now we're sitting here in this jail cell, with psychologists and psychiatrists and everyone else telling us about this disorder and that disorder, but we know they're all full of shit. There's nothing wrong with us. Juan got what he deserved. Celeste got we she deserved. That bitch Adrian should have went down with them. We simply took what we wanted.

We're going to die soon, probably. But at night, we sometimes separate, and as he slumbers, Matthew Engarde has a nightmare-filled sleep. Just as we know he deserves for being in our way.

_...I have no idea who I am._

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><p><strong>That was really creepy to write, especially the end part. Just to make sure everyone's clear, it <em>is <em>the same character speaking throughout. Reviews/requests make for a happy author~**


	4. Diego

**Enjoy~ A short one this time, but I like it.**

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><p><strong>Diego<br>**_(For deadlysnipe12)_

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><p><em>I have a confession to make...<em>

I used to be a tea drinker. No, really. I drank gallons of the stuff. None of this fancy herbal crap, just pure boiled leaves in a mug. Black tea, no sugar. And like any loyal tea-drinker, I was totally against the idea of coffee. I came from a family of tea-drinkers, and tea was my beverage of choice.

When I started working at Grossberg's, I found that tea wasn't enough. I was twenty-one, twenty-two? The old man piled on the work, and Hammond often siphoned his own off onto me, too. I found myself falling asleep at the office, head on a pile of paperwork, more than once. And so I tasted my first cup of coffee. It was...unremarkable, but it did the job. I got through the nights on one or two, still much preferring tea. There was no immediate affection to the beverage that would explain my obsession.

When I was twenty-three, I had my first case. A murder trial - Grossberg loved throwing newbies in at the deep end, something which (as we all know) Mia took after him - and quite a grizzly one, too. Eight year-old girl and her mother mother found dead, the former beaten to the point where the poor kid gave up and the latter poisoned. The father was arrested for it.

It was a long trial; just before the three-day system came in on the initial trial system. It lasted maybe two weeks, three, before it went to the High Court. That was two or three weeks I spent in horror. The pictures of the beaten body of that poor little girl dwelled on my mind at night, while during the day I forced myself to be detached. God knows how she must have suffered. Every time I closed my eyes at night, she was there, begging her parent to stop, pleading with him that she'd be good from now on - all of this was from testimony from a neighbour who had heard the girl's cries and nothing else; they'd alerted the police, but it was too late when they arrived. Current assumption was that the man had poisoned the mother before going for the child. And when I couldn't sleep, I couldn't focus.

Coffee, for those weeks, was a lifesaver. I drank so much of it, desperate to stay awake, to get away from the horrible images of that little girl. And it helped. It focused my mind. I looked at the times of their deaths and found out that the mother died ever so slightly _afterwards. _We eventually discovered the truth - it was a murder-suicide. My heart went out to the broken man on the defendant's chair when his innocent verdict was announced. What was a verdict, to him? He'd been accused of murdering his wife and daughter, dragged through hell, only to find out that his beloved wife herself had taken them both from him. He thanked me dully for my help. I offered him a mug of coffee.

This wasn't it, either, in case you're wondering. This wasn't why I began drinking seventeen cups to every trial, despite the coincidence of the seventeen nights I spent on it. No, the real reason is much more trivial...and much more important.

Grossberg hired a new girl the next year, and I became attached to her immediately. Oh, Mia, if only things had worked out differently, we would be married today. But no, I'm getting ahead of myself. I teased her often, and she bantered back well. She was adorable when irritated, and beautiful all the time. I fell in love with her fairly quickly, though she wouldn't find that out for another year or so.

One day, during another particularly grueling case (although, of course, much shorter now), I was brewing myself some coffee, and offered a mug to the young lady who was puzzling over a trial video on the sofa. "No thanks," she replied. "I don't understand how you can drink that stuff, and black like that. It stinks up the place."

I perked up. "Does it annoy you, Kitten?"

She looked up at me, wary. "No," she replied eventually. "No. It's not like you're drinking like seventeen cups every day."

And _that _is when coffee became a regular staple of my diet.

_...It was all for her._

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><p><strong>Reviews = :)<strong>


	5. Miles

**Miles  
><strong>_(For kittycatty0328)_

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><p><em>I have a confession to make...<em>

My mother and father were expecting a girl. Cliché, yes, but true; Angela and Gregory Edgeworth were enthralled with the idea of their baby Becca. After two miscarriages and a false pregnancy, this image of their daughter was firmly in their heads - especially the head of my mother, orphaned at fourteen, who wanted nothing more than a little baby of her own to take care of. And a baby she got, lacking one vital part and sporting another which had been entirely unexpected.

They named me 'Miles' for my father's grandfather - or, to hear my mother tell it, 'for the miles and miles your poor father had to drive to see you on time when you were born'. I loved my mother. Truly. I have never forgotten her, despite what my father thought, despite what everyone thinks. She was never particularly well, though, not for a moment, not really. Something in her broke before I was born, and I know that the disappointment of my sex, despite my father's protests when I asked him, didn't help her in the slightest. Her little sister, I found out, had died young when they were both in the orphanage. She was a Rebecca, 'and only six when they took her'. My mother never truly got over it, I don't think; she blamed herself a little, she 'should have been looking after her better'. So the idea of her baby girl was almost a replacement of this sister I suppose, and I, unfortunately, disappointed her.

My mother was younger than my dad; four years younger. She was only twenty-two when I came along, and her mental stability by the time she died was that of someone around half her age. Poor thing. My father loved her so much.

Don't think she was all gloom and doom though, my mother. She was a wonderful lady. For the first six years of my life, she was the best mother in the world, and I cannot stress this enough. A little odd, stranger than other kids' mothers, but I loved her. She taught me to play the flute. I've seen pictures when I was a baby, dressed in her little home-made pink bobble hats - she'd made them when she was expecting a girl, so they weren't going to go to waste - with both of my parents, and the three of us look so happy.

I always dressed smartly, by the way. My father always said that sharp clothes indicate a sharp mind. And my favourite accessory was my little bow-tie, created out of some of my mother's leftover material. "It's not pink, Miles," she told me gently when she presented it to me and I, aged four, objected that pink was for girls, "It's called magenta, the colour, perfect for big strong men like you."

My mother didn't die when I was six. She left. I don't know if she even knew what she was doing. She still occasionally sent small gifts, on my birthdays and at Christmas time, but I never saw her again. Dad was heartbroken, but we coped well enough, the two of us. He focused a lot more on his work after his wife left, but he never didn't have time for me. My father became my idol...but I still wore my little bow tie. When Phoenix and Larry began to frequent my home, the questions were inevitably asked - by Larry, mostly - where my Mom was, and my father explained, firmly, that she had gone away.

I spoke to Phoenix later that night, while Larry snored on the sofa. He asked me quietly if my mother was dead. This was a surprise to me then; I'd never considered how people may see things before. No, I told him, she's just sick. Maybe you'll meet her one day when she gets back.

She didn't, of course, as we all know. My father was killed, and I left for Germany. When I was an older teenager, I started wearing my suits; the infamous original suit of mine was entirely of Manfred Von Karma's design, the frills, the excess - except for the main colour. Magenta - not pink - I chose, in a homage to my late father's wife, my mother. I hoped, in an odd way, that it would make him happy.

It was when I was about twenty one or twenty two, in Germany with my adopted sisters after the SL-9 fiasco for a short holiday. My older sister made a habit of buying American newspapers, and I often skimmed over them; even on vacation I didn't want to lose touch with what was going on back home. It was a tiny little article in the middle of the paper. A suicide report, about ten small lines long, a tiny little box with tiny little print mourning the passing of Ms Angela Holden - her maiden name, of course.

I didn't cry; I'd lost my mother long before then. I sat alone for a while, thinking over in my head, remembering.

I began to dress much more plainly after that. The frills were nominally kept in the form of my cravat, but the rest of my suit was plain and smart, as my father had taught me. It was almost a reverse of what had happened before; I dressed for my mother on the death of my father, and for my father on the death of my mother.

So when I stand in court now, or when I visit their graves - I tracked my mother's down eventually - I stand proudly in my suit. Smart clothes for a smart mind, and magenta, not pink, for a big strong man like me.

_...I miss my family_

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><p><strong>Reviews are love~<strong>


	6. Klavier

**So I had a request from an anonymous reader to write something about Ema Skye (in the AJ era). Unfortunately, I wasn't supplied with a situation and I haven't played any of the games for about a year, so I'm having difficulty thinking of something. I WILL get round to it, but I'm too busy with uni to do a play-through just now, so until something comes to me I'll go on with my other requests. Many apologies!**

**If possible, requests should come with a vague idea of what situation you're interested in, for the above reasons. Thanks, and enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Klavier<br>**_(For kittycatty0328)_

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><p><em>I have a confession to make...<em>

He was my idol. I didn't want to be _like _him, I wanted to _be_ him. My brother. Eight years older than me and the best at everything. When I was nine, he was seventeen, and I was driven about in my big brother's new car feeling like a king as my friends watched in envy - they still had to go places with their _parents_. Kris took me to amusement parks, movies, funfairs, you name it. He was the best big brother ever. Of course, half the time our parents had to persuade him to take me, but I didn't know that then, and I doubt it would have lowered him in my estimation if it did. I adored Kris with every fibre of my being, and copied everything - his hair, his tone, his clothing style. Everything.

When he was twenty-one, he became a lawyer, and the next year he went off to America to try his luck there. I was fourteen when he went, a young, attractive, talented guy who had by now come into his own. I dressed differently from Kris now, and I had taken up singing and guitar, both of which I may say I rocked at, and, as everyone knows, still do to this day. Our hairstyles still remained markedly similar, however; despite our age difference, some have mistaken us for twins upon a quick glance. Past the stage of idolising, and into the stage of rebellion, I no longer wanted to imitate my brother - I wanted to best him. My parents were always comparing us, and I was held in a negative light in my father's eyes compared to studious Kristoph, although my papa would never admit it. So I began training, at fourteen, to also be a lawyer. I don't think either of my parents took it very seriously. Kris was very supportive, but I doubt even he took it quite as seriously as I did. I didn't want to be a defence attorney, oh no. I trained to be a prosecutor, in the hopes that one day I could take my brother on.

I didn't see much difference, really. Defence attorney, prosecutor, what difference was there, when the two were supposed to work together? All that matters is the truth.

Anyway. When I was fifteen, I was introduced to Daryan, on a trip over to see Kris. We became friends quickly, and kept in touch when I went back home. It was Kristoph that introduced us, actually; he was acquainted with an aunt of Daryan, who happened to be visiting his office that day. I wonder if he knew. That one day, I would join him in the US for good. That one day, Daryan would...

Well. That's when we began writing songs together, and a couple of years later, the Gavinners were created with three of Daryan's friends. We couldn't, of course, perform, but I was all set - next year, I was moving there with them, to follow our music dreams. Kristoph smiled when I told him, but reminded me lightly that I would have to choose; one or the other. "No man can protect the law and 'rock out' at the same time, Klavier," he told me with that gentle smile of his.

"Being in court is the greatest rock session of all, brother, _ja_?" I replied. He rolled his eyes at me, but said no more about it. I'm certain he didn't believe I could do it, but I did. I passed the bar exam and became Prosecutor Klavier Gavin, and I picked up a mike and became lead singer of the Gavinners. I - we - went to the top almost immediately. I am, perhaps, a little cocky, and it began to irritate my brother. He told me to choose, English or German, when I was speaking. But I didn't want to. It was too..._proper..._for Klavier. Kristoph was smart and professional in court, but I was not Kristoph.

I was seventeen. A fool. I still truly adored my brother - of course I did, he was _Kris! _- despite our opposing personalities. We fought for the same cause, held the same ideals, I thought, I _knew_. I loved him more than anyone, trusted him more than anyone, so when he came to me and told me that Phoenix Wright was a dirty forger I didn't stop to think that there was something wrong with the situation. You all know the story of what happened next, of course. The infamous Mr Wright lost his badge and Zak Gramarye disappeared and left his girl behind. And Kristoph came out on top.

Kris started his own law office around then, aged twenty-four, and given his repute at his old job, they flocked to him, old clients and new - everyone that Herr Wright would have otherwise been defending. And Kris changed.

I tried to ignore it. It was a gradual thing, over seven long years, so small, so unnoticeable if you didn't know him well. But I did. He was paranoid. He didn't sleep as much, didn't open doors without checking who it was first, didn't answer calls if the number wasn't recognised. To the outside world, Kristoph Gavin was an exemplary character, impeccable in his manner, but to his little brother he was a man with something the matter - a darkness that I couldn't even begin to penetrate.

I never mentioned it more than once, because he went crazy when I did. The Gavinners' popularity and my brother's law career both soared, and we remained as close as possible, but there was this tension between us that hadn't existed before. For the most part, though, we were normal. I still looked up to him. I still loved him.

And then Shadi Smith died. I didn't want to believe it; how could I? _Kris? _A _murderer? _Never! I half-believed that _he _had done it. Phoenix Wright I mean. He'd done it and tricked this greenhorn into thinking it was Kris. That's what I wanted to believe. Then I met Apollo Justice and I knew the truth.

Herr Forehead, I call him. He may be fun to tease and a little slow on the uptake, but I knew immediately that he knew the truth when he saw it, and I knew what my brother had done. So when Apollo called Kristoph to the stand during Vera Misham's trial, my heart stopped.

I objected. What could I do? I didn't - I _couldn't _- see this happening. For Kristoph to be imprisoned for the murder of a random stranger was one thing, but _this..._but I looked across the room and saw Apollo Justice staring right back out me and I allowed him to do as he would.

That trial...it was monstrous for me. That man, on that stand...Kris? It couldn't be. Kris never looked so cold, Kris never...I could barely form a coherent sentence the whole time, until the very end, when he thought he'd won. My brother mocked the defence attorney, told him he could never get him. And I...I stepped in. My brother? No. A coldhearted killer sat in his place. I reminded them of the jury, and he broke down.

The laugh afterwards was...terrible. But I watched coolly as they lead the insane man away. And he lives to this day, languishing in a cell until it's his turn to be killed. I visited him once, with the little fräulein. That was horrendous, but we helped each other face our demons, and I told my brother goodbye. I never went back. He's still there, I know. He's asked for me. But I won't go back. Kristoph Gavin will rot in his cell for his crimes, be executed for the murders he's committed - of Drew Misham, Zak Gramarye, an attempt on the life of Vera Misham...and the death of my brother, Kris.

_...my brother died a long time ago._

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	7. Mia

**Mia  
><strong>_(For holderoftheheart)_

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><p><em>I have a confession to make...<em>

We only spent six months together. I mean, _together _together. We'd known each other much longer and flirted for, oh, who knows how much of that time. Nearly all of it, I guess. He proposed to me before it happened, you know. I said yes. How could I have said anything else? I loved him so much, I couldn't think for a second that would ever change. I still do, and when he joins me I'll be waiting for him with open arms.

I'm good at waiting for him. I waited for him for years, after all, waiting on him to open his eyes, to come back to me. _A lawyer is someone who can't cry 'til it's all over, Mia._ And it wasn't over. She'd put a stop to it, to us, to him, but it wasn't _over. _No, I was twenty-four years old and my fiancè was lying with white hair in a hospital bed, but they promised me he'd wake up soon. _He _promised me he wouldn't die because of her. And I loved him, I loved him so much, and I trusted him. And so I waited.

The days seemed to melt into each other. Years and years past, but I don't think there was a period of more than maybe two days that I didn't visit his hospital bed. I chatted to him, I bought him presents, and I wrote to him so that he could read what I'd been thinking when he woke up. AndI had to get on with my life. It was...difficult. My mentor was gone - for now - and life at Grossberg's was awkward to say the least. They were both so...I don't know how to explain it. They didn't seem to know how to talk to me anymore. Sidelong glances, half-formed sentences, loud coughing and quick excuses to finish conversations. I didn't mind. I felt so listless that I couldn't even comprehend what was going on. I began to wake up eventually of course: I had to. It was during a visit, and I was halfway through my normal routine, speaking to him and writing to him, when the nurses told me about his vision. _Blind_. I remember the fury flashing up inside me then. Blind! She'd stolen his vision. My sadness didn't disappear, no, it changed. It became an obsession, perhaps not a healthy one, eclipsing even the obsession with clearing my mother's name. I would _get _her. For Valerie. For Terry. For Diego. Especially for Diego. And I don't know why, but it happened in my head without my consent - I became half-convinced that when I did, they would give me my Diego back. Until then, I'd have to try to get through without him. _Someone who can't cry 'til it's all over, Mia._

And then she made the mistake. She killed Doug Swallow, and blamed Phoenix Wright...who came to us for help. We got her, I _got _her, and I rushed to the hospital immediately after saying goodbye to my client, excited, jubilant, burst into his hospital wing and-he was still there. Still lying there, unconscious, for all intents and purposes dead to the world. I spent a long time at the hospital that day, staring at his face, unblinking, unable to comprehend why he wasn't back with me now, now that I'd beaten her. Then I went back to the office. I'm not proud of what happened there, and I don't remember much of it, but I remember being so, _so _angry, screaming, shouting...it ended in Mr Grossberg restraining me I remember, and smashed things and broken mess all over the office. "Mia," he tried to soothe me, sounding anxious and concerned about me at the same time, "Mia, it's okay. It's okay to cry."

"No it's _not!_" I remember screaming at him. Poor Mr Grossberg. I apologised later, the next week, and paid for the damages, but I knew I wouldn't ever set foot in that office as an employee again. He wouldn't have minded, but I couldn't do it. And so the Fey and Co Law Offices were born. I became obsessed again, this time with vindicating my mother, more so than before. Diego had been helping me with that, and maybe, _maybe _if I could just do _this..._maybe then he'd come back to me. _Can't cry 'til it's all over, Mia._

And so I hired Phoenix and the Fey and Co Law offices made a name for themselves. I became extremely close to him, like a younger brother, and many times I nearly shared my secret with him - both my secrets, about Diego and about my mother. But no, I somehow couldn't. I needed to keep them... separate, somehow. I didn't want to, for lack of a better word, jinx anything. And I got it all. All the information to catch THAT man. To get my mother's revenge. And just as I was closing in..._It's all over, Mia._

I wasn't gone. I came back a few times, to help Phoenix out, because I wasn't ready to leave. I wasn't ready to leave my sister, my closest friend...and Diego. I couldn't leave him, not without knowing. I'd spent one lifetime waiting for him, and I didn't want to wait another. And then Phoenix met Godot. Iris' trial was eye-opening - my little cousin, Iris Hawthorne, how could I not have known her, how could I not have recognised who that _evil _woman truly was, Dahlia Hawthorne, the little Fey twins, Aunt Morgan's daughters. Perhaps if I had recognised her then, no one would needed to die. Perhaps Diego and I would have never been parted. Perhaps. Or perhaps not. But Phoenix...oh Phoenix, I will be eternally grateful and over again to him for what he's done for me and for my family, over and over again. When it was over, the trial, when Dahlia was gone, I said goodbye to him. I knew it was time to move on. Finally, _finally, _it was over. And with a twinge of sadness I bid him farewell and left, intending to keep an eye on him as well as I could. _Over, Mia._

And then he helped me again. Him and Miles Edgeworth, a man I would have never expected it from. Perhaps it was his way of making it up to me, from so many years ago, or perhaps he just knows what it feels like to lose what you love. Phoenix, and Edgeworth, and Maya. They brought me to her. And she brought _him _to me. They gave me my goodbye. "I'm sorry, Diego," I told him silently from across the jail's interview table. "I'm sorry."

_"_Me too, Kitten," he told me. _Mia._

_...I let myself cry._

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	8. Iris

**You should all read my blog, by the way, irrelevant as it is: ht tp: / soyourboyfriendisanaspie . tumblr . com/ Anyway, on with the show!  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Iris<strong>

_(For SweetieLove)_

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><p><em>I have a confession to make...<em>

Pearl Fey came to visit me. Just Pearl. She told me that I wasn't to tell anyone she was here, but that she had wanted to see me specially. Her sister. Neither of us quite got out heads around it properly, I don't think, but that's who I am, Pearl Fey's older sister. Pearl's _only _sister. So when she spilled all of her worries onto me that day, let me see her tears, about her mother, about her cousin...about Mr Phoenix Wright...I let her cry, and I comforted her, and I promised that I'd be there when she needed me.

When Phoenix - not Feenie, not now - when he visited me, he was so gentle, so nice...and so different. We spoke, spoke about many things, about our past, about our present, and about Dahlia. And as he left, he told me, "It's about time you started looking out for _yourself, _Iris."

What is it, to 'look out for yourself'? Ever since I was young, I was taking care of others. Please don't misunderstand, I _wanted _to. Oh Dahlia, my sweet Dahlia. I know what she became, I know what she did, but I'm also the only one who knows what she _was._ We were too young, too little to understand what was happening. I still vaguely remember the shouting, my mother crying, _it's not my fault! It's hers, it's _Misty,_ it's all her fault, please, don't go, don't go, stay with me, _and the cruel calmness of my father's voice as he took us both by the hand and gave her a curt goodbye to his wife as he led us to the car. Dahlia cried all the way, hours and hours it seemed, but I kept her close to me, held her tight, promised I would care for her forever.

We lived with my father for a few years, before Rhea came along, with her daughter. I don't blame them, not Rhea nor Valerie, for what happened to me. I don't even particularly blame my father. The Fey clan was looking for acolytes, he told me, his little daughter, and a good, obedient, quiet little girl like me would be perfect. He didn't want three daughters, is the truth of it, and he had always prized his little flame, with spirit to match her hair, to her drab, dark, boring twin. Dahlia would have had me believe years later that _she _was the one who made my father give me up, but I know different. She kicked and screamed, destroyed things, wouldn't calm down until I held her, told her I wouldn't leave her. My poor, pathetic sister, she never was settled in this life, and the demon of her troubled mind took her over. But not then. Not that night. That night, she sobbed in my arms until she fell asleep, feeding off my promises to always be there. And then I left her.

Sister Bikini was like a mother to me. She _is_ my mother, in all but blood. She raised me and cared for me, so I cared for her. I fell into a life of servitude, to care for my new family, and eventually Bikini let her little pet work away. It helped her, her and her back, when I did most of the work, and so I did, and eventually she stopped protesting. When my sister was fourteen, she asked for my help in the infamous jewel heist, and I told her I would help her. As the day approached, however, I got more and more terrified, eventually confessing to Bikini what we - my sister, her step-sister, myself and poor Mr Fawles - intended to do. And she told me not to do it, explaining her sorrow that my sweet sister had turned to such wrong-doing, and that she wished I would not do the same. So I didn't go.

You know what happened next on the bridge. Dahlia flew into a rage at me weeks later when she returned from her supposed watery grave, slapping and pinching and yelling until Valerie pulled her off. I liked Valerie, despite everything. She held my twin tight as she told me about Terry Fawles' trial, and how she'd found Dahlia soon afterwards, minus the diamond. I could sense the unease in her, but Valerie was determined she would stick to this path, for her little sister's sake, something which I well understood. "I'm sorry," I told her. I told them both. Valerie nodded at me and started to take Dahlia away. Dahlia glared at me, and spat in my direction, before allowing herself to be led off.

Poor Valerie. Five years passed in which I barely heard from my sister or my father's step-daughter. Poor, misguided Valerie, trying to do her best, trying to finally do right. And poor Mr Fawles, the innocent, besotted simpleton. It was the first scheme of Dahlia's that I didn't really know about, and they both died, and she got away. I know, I knew then, my sister was evil. Pure evil had taken over what she was. But what could I do? My sister. I'd promised to care for her. She started dating Doug Swallow, and for a while she went almost back to normal, almost happy. And then she did that _stupid _thing. Mr Diego Armando was poisoned, and Phoenix Wright came into Dahlia's life. Into my life.

I persuaded her to let me try. I didn't want more blood on my precious sister's hands. And then, of course, I fell for him. I'm so proud of him now; he's become everything he wanted to be. But he isn't Feenie anymore. She changed him, I know. I changed him. And so did our cousin, Mia Fey. When she gave him the tools to find and 'save' Miles Edgeworth, when she let him into her life and world of law, he changed from my airheaded theatre-studying Feenie into Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney. But then, _then _he was simply Feenie, and I loved him as much as he loved me - as much as he loved 'Dollie'. Six glorious months, and I stopped trying to get the necklace back, because it meant little to me now. I just wanted to keep him safe, to keep him with me. And then Dahlia ruined it all, killing the boy she loved as she failed to kill the one I did and finally being captured and taken away and executed five years later. That hurt. That hurt so much. Losing Feenie stung, but losing my sister was like losing myself. My poor Dahlia, so strong and smart, twisted by what life had given to her. And my dear, dear Feenie. When we met again, when he visited me, I told him how I had loved him, and he smiled at me, a stranger and a previous lover all in one, and he thanked me, and we parted as friends.

Devoid of my sister, devoid of my lover, I threw myself into my work. And then they contacted me, my Aunt Misty and Diego Armando - Godot - and told me of the threat to my cousin, Maya. I hadn't seen Maya since she was a toddler, but I knew at once I had to protect her. Protect her from my mother as I'd once protected Dahlia, and protect her from my sister like I'd tried to protect Phoenix Wright. And of course, Aunt Misty was killed, Dahlia was beaten, and I ended up here.

I miss her. Dahlia. I miss her when she was small, when she needed me. And now Pearl comes to me, looking for the sister she never knew she had. I'm sorry, Phoenix, but I can't just look out for myself, not even for a moment. It's not who I am.

_...I'll always need someone to care for._

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	9. Apollo

**Apollo  
><strong>_(For holderoftheheart)_

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><p><em>I have a confession to make...<em>

When Mr Wright told me who she was, I let her hold me. My mother. I had a mother, have a mother now. Trucy was ecstatic, of course - to find the mother she thought she'd lost! The mother _I _had lost. My mother, Thalassa Gramarye. Our mother, mine and Trucy's. My sister.

It was too much to wrap my head around, really. Trucy slipped into it all as if Thalassa had never been away, and I...well, I moved in with the Wrights, on Trucy's insistence. Not that I was complaining, it was hard to keep up with the rent in my tiny apartment alone. And, well, it didn't feel strange. Mr Wright isn't _quite _a father figure in my life, but I suppose - and don't anyone let him hear this - he's become a sort of older brother, or uncle, maybe. Not my father, no, but the closest thing I have. And Trucy...I love her. I do. She gets on my nerves, and has since we met, but what else is a sister for? I suppose I always saw her this way, really, as a little sister; only now, of course, I find out that it's _true._

But Thalassa...what is she to me, but some singer that Prosecutor Gavin hired for a concert and lost her manager in the process? A jurist on Vera Misham's trial? But my _mother?_

When I was three, I went to my first foster mother. I stayed with Julianne for about five years, before I moved on to Marietta, then Mrs Alice-Anne Small, who, ironically, is quite a large lady. Julianne helped me perfect walking and talking, taught me to read and to write, watched me with pride as I entered school for the first time. She was there for my first ever school quizzes, and my first skinned knees, and my first sleepover with friends. Marietta had me from the age of eight to fourteen, and in that time she saw my first detention for talking too loudly in class, my first crush on a friend and my first tentative kiss and the consequent heartbreak, and the formation of my dreams of the future. And Alice-Anne, who I loved best, who would have adopted me if they would have let her, was with me through high school and college, through my first relationships and my apprenticeship at the Gavin and Co law offices, through every important milestone of the latter years of my teenage life. She was the one who encouraged my dreams, who held me when I was stressed. I don't know why she prized me even above all her other foster children, why she loved and nurtured me like she did, but I never forgot and was forever grateful. I lived with her until I was nineteen, when I finally had to leave, making room for all the other children who would be lucky enough to live with her, if even for a short time.

I still keep in contact with them all on occasion; Julianne sent me a letter when she heard about my first case in congratulations, Marietta has called a few times, but it is Alice-Anne who I visit and who visited me, who I call at least once a fortnight and share my news. She insisted on meeting Mr Wright, though as far as I know I've managed to keep her away - just. And then this woman comes out of nowhere and tells me she's my mother, and, well, I don't really know how I'm supposed to act.

Thalassa sat me down and told me her story, about my father and his accident, about her illness, about _her_ father and Zak and Valant. She wept as she told me, and I comforted her even as she was begging my forgiveness. There's no need to apologise, I told her; no need at all. When she finally calmed down, she looked at me, dry-eyed now, her intense gaze seeming to reach my core. And of course it did. Didn't I do the same thing to witnesses on the stand every trial? Didn't Trucy do the same to me, to those who played her daddy at poker? Thalassa was the first to break the gaze with a rueful smile. "It's too late."

I didn't answer.

"I'm sorry," she told me again. "And I'm so proud of you, Apollo."

"Thank you," I told her, and I realised she was right. This woman, my mother...to hear those words from her was nothing compared to hearing them from Alice-Anne...nothing even to hearing them from Mr Wright. "You don't need to apologise."

"Yes I do," she told me sadly. "Any mother who loses her son must apologise."

I pitied her then, but, again she was right. This woman was my mother by blood, but I couldn't feel that bond, that warmth I'd wanted from childhood, that connection that I never truly found, not even from Alice-Anne Small with her brood of foster-kids, until I met Phoenix Wright and his daughter. My sister.

"I've had a lot of mothers," I explained slowly. I didn't want to hurt her; I bore her no ill-will. I just...well, I didn't know her.

She stood to go. "Of course. Perhaps I shall see you again, Apollo," she told me with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, and walked past me in a hurry.

I found my arm shooting out, grabbing her wrist as she passed. "I've had a lot of mothers," I repeated as she looked down at me, surprised. "But I've never had a real sister, and I do now. You gave her to me."

Thalassa stared. "You would have been close to Trucy anyway, would you not? Even if you didn't know? You were acting like siblings already, that day at the concert when I was Lamiroir." She chuckled, and I smiled.

"Trucy and Mr Wright...they are my family now, yes," I admitted, realising I could trust her not to laugh, not to share. "But...you made that possible. If it wasn't for you..."

"All I did-"

"No," I interrupted firmly. "Trucy wants you in her life. She's willing to have you try again with her, to make up for what's lost. Now she knew you for longer than I did, and less time ago than me. And I'm not promising anything. It'll take a long time, and I don't know you yet. You'll never be able to be my 'mommy' from when I was a kid, it's too late for that. But you gave me my family, in one way or the other and...I guess I'm willing to try too. For something."

_...maybe one day we'll be family, too._

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	10. Ema

**This one is a little silly, hopefully not in a bad way!**

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><p><strong>Ema<strong>

_(For Gravaja Umbros and anonymous reviewer)_

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><p><em>I have a confession to make...<em>

You know how people have all these emotional stories about how they got started on an addiction? Like, "my mom died, so I became an alcoholic", or "my dad left me, so now I can't stop drinking orange soda because it was his favourite", or "I lost my attorney's badge after being falsely accused of forging evidence, so now I drink far too much grape juice", or even "I'm German, so I'm addicted to being a fop"? Yeah. I don't have one of those.

I'm serious! There's nothing to tell!

What?

Oh, fine. If I must.

My first bag of Snackoos were chocolate flavoured, and a present from my sister while I was studying for my forensic science exam, which was a pretty stressful time in my life. Those lovely sugar-coated chocolate-flavoured puffs of sugar got me through the stress. Every time it got too much I'd reach for a couple and snack away to calm down, and they did help. Tasted good, too.

I failed the first mock test, so I threw myself into studying even harder. The first bag I ever purchased for myself were as a cheer-up thing, a consolation prize in the knowledge I'd do better next time. Hesitating at the shelf, I figured I'd purchase two more bags - I was going to need them.

You can see where this is going. Every time I failed, I bought more. They helped keep me calm, give me something to do with my hands without engaging my brain - help me chill out. But then I failed the final exam and all hell broke lose.

I cried for days, apparently, though I think Lana is exaggerating. I couldn't have sulked in my bedroom, not me, not a twenty-one year old, fully grown woman. Assuming I _did, _though, I'm sure you can imagine the first thing I went for after my little strop. It was Lana who suggested that I go over to the US, try there. Why not, I figured? And there were positions open in Los Angeles, exactly where I'd always dreamed of being, back home. And - I can admit it, I guess - I was kind of excited. Now, maybe, when I passed, I'd get to see him again, and help solve cases with my forensic evidence.

I failed. They made me a detective. It left a sour feeling in my gut, despite Lana's pride - "following in my footsteps, let's hope you do a better job than I did!" - because, well, I didn't _want _to be a detective. And then I found out about Phoenix Wright's disbarment. That...wasn't exactly the happiest day of my life. I think I got through about twenty bags that afternoon and night. The next morning, I was out of them, so I went without any form of defence to meet my boss, the prosecutor, the next day. Prosecutor Klavier Gavin. I'd seen a trial or two featuring his brother, Kristoph. He was a dapper man, polite and well-mannered and reserved from what I'd seen. The prospect cheered me somewhat, that I'd have a boss that knew what he was doing if he was anything like his brother.

"Come in," he called when I knocked. I entered, and he swung round on his chair, and I had just enough time to be dazzled by a lot of glimmer before my fate was sealed. "Ah! Welcome, welcome, Fräulein Detective! They did not warn me about your beauty!"

"...what?" I demanded. "I don't think that's appro-"

He laughed at me then. "No worries, Fräulein. I say that to all the ladies. I assume you're a hard worker? Because I have quite a few cases that need looking at...and I don't want to."

That was the first night I ordered Snackoos online in bulk. That fop has been plaguing me ever since, and the more time I spend around him, the more I eat. It's not out of unacknowledged love or anything - trust me, I considered that route and it definitely wasn't. I've never met someone so _bloody _irritating.

But it's not because of him. It's not because of anyone. At the end of the day, I eat Snackoos for one reason.

_...they're just really tasty._

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	11. Franziska

**Franziska**

_(For Gravaja Umbros)_

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><p><em>I have a confession to make...<em>

I didn't know my mother. She died a few days after I was born, thanks to complications in the birthing process. I didn't attend school, instead being tutored at home from a young age: my father, I believe, blamed my sister's schooling for "how she turned out."

Before I was old enough to be educated by tutors, it was my sister and her old nurse, Gertrude, who handled the primary parts of my education. Gertrude taught me very basic arithmetic and shapes, drawing and and dancing, while Klara - my sister, older by eleven or twelve years - taught me reading and writing, and was the primary reason I learned to speak fluently. It was down to Klara that I learned English alongside German from the very beginning; she believed it would give me more of a chance, broaden my horizons - she detested my father as much as he detested her, and she tried to lead me away from his determination to have me follow in his footsteps. She failed, of course, but nonetheless my lessons in languages continued. I was always more comfortable speaking my own language, but Klara made a point of mixing the two when she chatted to me, especially after my papa took in my little brother, Miles.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Perhaps everyone who knows me is aware of my favourite word when it comes to speaking English; I suppose you could say that it is one of my, as some would put it, character traits. Although articulate from a young age, I was not equally able to express myself in both of the tongues I had learned, unlike my sister. While I could make my feelings _very _clear in German - my sister once told me how, at three or four years old, I managed to make one of the servants burst into tears when I berated her - I had some difficulty doing the same in English. I envied my sister's perfect command of both languages, especially when Miles came along. He knew very little German when he arrived, much less than I did English, but he picked up on it quickly. He was much less comfortable in my language than I was in his, but my father rarely deigned to speak anything but German while we were at home for his sake, and neither would I. Klara, however, would happily chat away to him in English, drawing him out of the shell that he had been trapped in since his father's death. It irritated me. _He _irritated me.

It wasn't that I wasn't fluent. It wasn't even that I lacked words. I knew what words meant, I understood everything that Miles or Klara, or even my father ever said in English, but I couldn't repeat it properly. I don't know why. I could perform every function necessary with language in both English and in German - but I was never able to aptly describe my feelings in the former. Perhaps it is because my father never held with describing emotions in any language, preferring the cold, stoic approach, but whatever the reason, it was an impossibility to me.

The last thing I must remind you before I go on is that I worshipped my father. He was my parent, and I craved his affection, and wanted nothing more than to live up to his standards. It made me proud that _I _was the one he considered his favourite child, while my sister was left in the shadows. I was two years old when he started teaching me 'the way of things', and I unflinchingly believed every word he said, even while my sister, who I adored (quietly) in all other aspects, was saying the opposite. This is how I saw things as a child, right up until my early adult years before my brother and his interfering partner-in-crime changed all of that - but that is another story.

It was just after Miles had come to live with us. I was almost four. Klara and my father were still - just - on speaking terms; they were willing to eat in the same room and make a little conversation when it was called for. Miles had gone to bed early with a stomach-ache, and none of Papa's usual guests were present, so it was myself, my sister and Papa for dinner that night, for maybe the third (and last) time in my memory. I remember Klara, then sixteen, sitting in angry silence for the first half of the meal, the heat of her rage almost palpable. When she finally spoke, it was in English - something our small family never did when we were alone together, rare as it was - displaying her defiance straight off. "I was talking to Miles," she told my father. Their arguments, at the end, were nearly all about Miles - Miles, or me, or both.

"Oh yes?" he replied in German, not looking up from his soup. "How interesting."

Unperturbed by his reply, Klara continued, refusing to cater to _his _refusal to communicate with her properly, leading to a bizarre, multi-language conversation, she in English, he in German. "He was quite upset. Something about defence attorneys and how he only now saw the stupidity behind their actions."

"Clever boy."

"He was echoing you."

"As I said, clever boy."

"Do you not _care _how upset he was? How upset he is?"

Papa didn't even bother to answer, and with a scraping of her chair, Klara was on her feet. "Is he nothing to you?" she demanded, once again getting no answer. "Papa, his _father _was a defence attorney. It is _wrong _to treat him like this, to poison his mind like this!"

"His father was a fool," Papa snapped, switching to English, perhaps to make his point clearer; my sister had clearly hit a nerve.

"_You _are the fool, if you think you can turn the boy away from his father's memory!" Klara replied.

My father too stood, and they glared at each other from either end of the table. "And why not? You have turned from me, you foolish girl. Get out of my sight."

Klara stormed out of the room, and my father sat back down, not even looking at me. My brain processed the conversation as quickly as it could, and the pattern was recognised. I didn't fully understand, of course, so what I took from it was one word; one word which clearly had a powerful impact, one word which would allow me to express my feelings when I wasn't speaking my own language in a way I had never been able to before. And it became a habit, a staple of my vocabulary, sticking around for most of my life even as my grasp on both languages matured far past it.

But when I am in this strange country - strange, even now, when I come to America, even after all those years since my first visit, even after my long stays - it is my crutch. And that is the reason that I will call you a fool, because I am too foolish to let go of the habit of a foolish little girl.

_...I don't know how else to go about things._


	12. Phoenix

**Phoenix**

_(For Gravaja Umbros)_

* * *

><p><em>I have a confession to make...<em>

I fell for "Dahlia Hawthorne", for "Dollie", so quickly that I barely had a minute to catch up with myself. Those were the happiest months of my life, happiest time that I've had since I was at school with Miles and Larry and the three of us were a happy team, where Miles was the best friend I ever had, before he left. The happiest time until Mia hired me, until she became my friend. Before Dollie came along, I was lonely; I had friends, but I had totally lost my way, I'd lost my goal. I wanted to find him, to save Miles, but by the time I got to college I'd fallen by the wayside, chosen a major far from what I really wanted to be doing because some of my friends were doing it, because I thought it would be...I don't know, easier. And then Dollie comes along and becomes a bright light in my life, leading me happily on my way.

And then she tried to kill me.

I couldn't cope, couldn't cope at all for a long time afterwards. I sat inside, I didn't see anyone. I didn't want to. And then, then, I got the phonecall.

"_Hello, is this Phoenix Wright?_"

"_Yes. Who's calling?_"

"_It's Mia Fey. Remember me? I was the lawyer. I'm actually calling with a proposal for you...if you would be at all interested."_

And, of course, that's when my life changed. You all know the story from there; Mia died, I met Maya, and I became pretty successful following in Mia's footsteps. I was able to put Dollie behind me, forget about her, forget about how she was like two people, because my Dollie, my _Dollie _was not that evil woman who had been sentenced to die, she was not Dahlia Hawthorne, who had tried to kill me, who had killed Doug, who had killed Mia's lover. Not my I pushed her out of my head and focused once again on my original goal, with Maya now to help me, and Mia still guiding me from afar, and somehow, _somehow, _I did it. I saved him.

My life was never peaceful from when I started on that path, but it was happy. Except for a short time, when I thought _he _was dead, every bit of the stress was worth it, because I was surrounded by my friends, by my _family, _and, well, I was saving people. And never once did she cross my mind.

And then she did again.

I won. I got her. She was gone for good, Maya was safe, and Diego Armando was once again alive. And then Iris, sweet, pretty Iris who bore such a resemblance to Dahlia that it could fool us all, told me how she'd fooled me before. Weary from the stress of the trial, weary from everything I'd just seen, everything I'd done, I couldn't even bring myself to be shocked. In fact, I think a part of me knew the minute I met her, the minute I met Iris, I saw the 'Dollie' who had been replaced by Dahlia Hawthorne when Doug died.

I stared at her that night, the memories of our time together overwhelming. Pearls slapped me a few times, but I couldn't stop, I couldn't look away, I couldn't stop thinking about the time we'd had together, the things we'd done together before I'd done them with anyone else, the places we went, the words we'd exchanged. She was the first person, the very first person who wasn't a member of my family, to whom I said "I love you."

I spoke to her alone a few days later.

"You lied to me," I said after a few moments of us looking at each other in silence.

"I know. I'm sorry, Fe-Phoenix. Mr Wright."

"Phoenix is fine," I said, half-smiling at her. "You don't need to apologise, Iris. I know why you lied. I understand."

"I still lied," Iris said, raising her eyes to look at me, and for an instant my heart beat faster - but only an instant. "I didn't have to. I just...I was selfish."

"You were not."

"I fell in love with you, and I let that get on top of everything."

I paused then, memories flashing through my head, our first kiss, our first touch, the feel of holding her against me...

And then they were gone.

"You made me happy, Iris," I told her, and now I was smiling. "Whatever your reasons, whatever your motivation, you made me happy. And I loved you too. So thank you."

Her eyes widened - she was surprised. And then she smiled back at me and we began to talk. We spoke about her life as an acolyte, we spoke about mine as an attorney, about Maya, about Miles, about Pearls, and most of all we spoke about Dahlia. Every word we said, every memory we exchanged, let a little more of her poison out of us, freed us a little bit more. We didn't talk about our shared past, not now. Not again, I don't think. We didn't have to. We'd changed, both of us. She was Iris, not Dollie, the acolyte, the carer, Pearls' sister. And I...I was Phoenix Wright, attorney at law, not Feenie the theatre major, not the soft, naive, lonely boy I was then, who needed my gentle Dollie to protect me, to care for me. I'd loved since then, loved in different ways, loved in the _same _way as I had once loved Dollie, once loved Iris. We weren't the same people anymore, and neither of us would be alone from now on.

"I'd like to stay your friend," she said gently.

"I'd like that a lot, too."

Time was nearly up now. I stood to go, promising I'd come back and visit as soon as possible, maybe bring Pearls with me, let her get to know her sister properly.

"I have another sister to look after now," Iris mused, almost to herself.

I frowned. "It's about time you started looking out for _yourself, _Iris."

She smiled to herself, quietly, sadly, and said two words to me. "Goodbye, Feenie," she said, and I understood completely.

"Goodbye, Dollie," I replied, and that chapter of our story closed behind us forever. I reached the door, opened it and paused, turning around as Iris spoke for the last time that visit.

"I love you," she said to me quietly, her eyes filled with tears, but not with sadness.

"I love you, too," I told her, and both of us meant the phrase completely differently from we had in our past.

But that it's meaning was different, didn't mean that it meant any less.

_...I was so happy to resolve everything._


	13. Regina

**Regina**

_(For TheNextAlice)_

* * *

><p><em>I have a confession to make...<em>

At least one day every month now, I make a big round of visits, just a few places. Sometimes Moe comes with me, and even Max comes occasionally even though I told him I wasn't ready to get married, to pick, not yet. Usually, though, I go alone. It doesn't matter where we are, who's around, or what's happening; I will always make this trip until I don't have to anymore.

First, I visit my grandmother, my mother's mother. We talk about when Mom was alive, and when she and Dad and I lived here, just after I was born, until I was four and old enough to travel with the circus. We talk about how cute a kid I was, and how lovely Mom was, and how proud she'd be of me. Then I go into her back room, where she keeps the pretty urn that holds Léon's ashes. We keep them here because I never wanted to take them travelling with me, scared in case I lost them. I know he'd be proud of me too.

Then I visit the graveyard, to the two plots side-by-side where Mom and Dad are buried. If Moe is with me, he sometimes cries a little then, but I don't. Moe doesn't get it, though he says that I'm the one who doesn't. But I do, I really do. Finally realising they were never coming back hurt more than anything has ever hurt me before. But I don't believe that means they're _gone_. Maybe I'll never see them again, but I still believe they're with me. Watching me, being proud. I don't tell Moe.

Third, the prison. This is the most difficult part. Max is always stiff and silent if he comes with me. He'll never really forgive Acro, I don't think. For wanting to hurt me. For hurting my dad. For framing Max. But I don't hate Acro. In fact, I kind of get him. We _need _to talk it out, I guess, so we can learn to forgive each other. He caused the death of my father, but it wasn't his intention, and it wasn't my intention to hurt Bat either, or to make it so Acro could never walk again, but it happened. So we talk. About Bat, about my father, about the circus. About how it'll be when he leaves prison, about the future and past of the circus.

Next, I go to the hospital, and sit next to Bat's bed for a few hours. He's so much better now, coming around sometimes. He can't speak yet, but he's opening his eyes and responding when I squeeze his hand and talk to him and promise that life is going to be fantastic as soon as he gets better. If Max is with me, he stays outside the hospital. Moe doesn't. Moe talks to Bat right along with me.

The last thing I do is return to the circus. At night, I creep out of my tent and lie on the grass, long after everyone else is asleep, and stare up at the stars. And although they're gone, I can see them. As I stare at the stars, I know. No matter what he says, Mom and Dad and Léon are all up there, watching and waving and helping me, helping Bat, helping Acro. Not part of our lives anymore, but making sure we live what we have to the fullest.

_...I still believe they're with me._


End file.
